Legacy
by MargyW
Summary: John receives a bequest from the Will of his recently deceased cousin. The boys are shocked by what they discover. Fic is a little cracky. Rated T for sexual references and swear words.


Sherlock entered 221B Baker Street and stopped dead, staring at his friend who was crouched on the floor of the living room, surrounded by several boxes.

"What on earth?"

John looked up from where he was truffling through the box closest to him. "You remember when my cousin James was killed in that car crash 6 months ago?"

Sherlock made a non-committal noise.

"Well these were delivered today. Apparently he left me his collection in his Will."

"His collection of what?" Sherlock was curious, in spite of himself.

"James was a bit of a music groupie. He followed a lot of punk rock and grunge bands around the country. Mostly pretty obscure bands that no-one has ever heard of."

Sherlock frowned. "Isn't groupie a word used to describe people, mostly women, who have sex with musicians and actors?"

"You never met James. He was as randy as a bisexual rabbit."

"Must be something in the Watson DNA," Sherlock deadpanned.

John ignored him and gestured at the boxes. "These boxes contain the history of some of the most forgettable bands that England has ever spawned."

"And your cousin collated histories of them?"

"My cousin was a weird little twerp." John looked at the boxes. "Anyone would be that got involved with this stuff." He looked up at Sherlock. "Want to give me a hand with these? Just in case there is something interesting in here? Like a dead rat."

**Several Hours Later**

Sherlock stood up and stretched. "Well, that was tedious. If there is a dead rat in the remaining box, I can tell you now, he expired from extreme boredom."

John rocked back on his heels, his expression dazed. "I never realized just how much of a groupie James was."

Sherlock pulled a face. "There is certainly a limit to how many photos one can look at of your cousin performing fellatio. Not to mention the books of transcribed lyrics of incredibly puerile and dull songs. Why on earth did he leave all this to you?"

"There you have me. I have no idea. Maybe he thought I was boring and needed shaking up."

Sherlock snorted. "More likely thought that as a doctor you'd appreciate the anatomical photographs."

"Only a collector of gay porn could appreciate those photos," John shuddered.

"I suppose you could sell them on ebay."

"Lestrade would arrest me for selling porn."

"Good point."

John looked at the fireplace. "At least we won't be short of fuel for the fire next winter."

Sherlock flounced across the room and threw himself on the sofa, assuming a pose of extreme boredom.

John pulled the last box towards him. The words "The Blistering Ferrets" were written across the top in black felt tip pen. He tore the box open and reached in. A large photograph rested loosely on the top of everything else. It was a shot of a band that John supposed was The Blistering Ferrets. His eye was caught by the lead singer. A tall young man with one hand resting on the microphone stand. His hair was peroxide blonde and swept up into a spike, but it was the expression on his face that arrested John's gaze. He'd seen that look before. Many, many times before.

Slowly, John got to his feet and walked towards Sherlock slumped on the couch. "I think you should see this. Might find it interesting."

Sherlock sniffed derisively, but held out a languid hand for the photo. He glanced at it and then froze. Sherlock sat bolt upright, staring at the photo in shock. The young man in the photograph was quite clearly Mycroft Holmes.

"You didn't know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. There was some unpleasantness during Mycroft's first year at university. I was sent back to school early to avoid it. Mummy was crying; Father was wandering around with a face like thunder. This must be the reason."

"Surely your parents wouldn't have got so upset over what's basically just a bit of teenage rebellion?"

"You have to understand, John. To my parents this wouldn't be just a teenage rebellion. In their eyes it would have more in common with the attempted overthrow of a small African republic."

John rolled his eyes. Obviously the Holmeses of the previous generation had been as given to over-reaction as this generation.

Sherlock sprang eagerly to his feet and rushed to the box. "What else is in there? This is so interesting." Sherlock began to dig frantically through the box.

"Sherlock! Be careful! There may be…"

"_Arrggghhhhhhhhhhh_."

"…photos like the other ones." John sighed.

Sherlock had spun away from the box, hands covering his eyes. He whimpered.

John picked up the photo Sherlock had just dropped and winced. He looked at his friend, who was curled up in a ball rocking backwards and forwards in some distress. John looked at the photo. He felt a twinge of unease himself. Seeing his best friend's brother getting a blow job from his own cousin was disturbing in the extreme.

John crouched down and dug into the box. He pulled out some old cassette tapes marked with the band's name. There were also books of transcribed lyrics. Most of which seemed to consist of repetitions of the words 'fuck' and 'ferret'.

"Did Mycroft have an obsession with ferrets?"

Sherlock stopped rocking long enough to reply. "He wanted one as a pet. Father wouldn't let him. Said ferrets were common."

"Your father sounds like a real barrel of laughs."

Sherlock sniffed derisively again.

John looked back down into the box. "Sherlock, you do realize what we have here?"

"Fuel for extended therapy sessions for the next twenty five years?"

"No. Blackmail material."

Sherlock froze, then slowly turned around and stared up at John. He got to his feet, his eyes never leaving his friend's face.

**One Week Later**

Mycroft frowned over the reports on his desk. His brother and John Watson had been behaving in an unusual manner, nothing overt, but just left of centre enough to have registered on Mycroft's personal radar. It really was time that he paid his dear brother and the good doctor a little visit.

The curtain of 221B Baker Street twitched as Mycroft got out of the car. He smiled grimly. Whatever his little brother was up to he was expecting a fraternal visit. That suggested that it was not something Mycroft would approve of.

Mycroft greeted Mrs Hudson with his usual charming condescension that made the elderly lady want to box his ears.

He marched upstairs to 221B. Sherlock and John looked up at his entrance. There was a large cardboard box sitting next to a ratty old stereo, several cassette tapes sat on top of the box. John was sitting on the floor in front of the stereo. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, an old exercise book resting on his lap.

"Sherlock. John."

"Mycroft," they returned his greeting civilly, which immediately raised Mycroft's hackles.

Mycroft settled into John's chair. "I have become concerned about you, Sherlock. You have no case, yet you are not making everyone's life a misery out of pique."

"Boredom, Mycroft. I don't do pique, as you call it."

"Quite. Semantics aside, you have been behaving a little oddly."

Sherlock shrugged. "John isn't concerned about my behavior."

"Yes. And that is exactly why I am concerned. Whatever it is, you have dragged the good doctor into it."

"I am here, you know, Mycroft," John put in from where he was crouched by the stereo.

"Apologies, my dear doctor."

John snorted.

Sherlock smiled at his brother. Every alarm on Mycroft's internal alert system went off. "There is nothing for you to worry about, brother mine. We've been studying…" He paused. "…music, for want of a better word."

"Music?"

"Yes, John made an interesting discovery last week."

"Really? A previously unknown work by Vivaldi, perhaps?"

Sherlock laughed. Mycroft fought down the urge to panic.

John pressed the play button on the stereo. A noise not unlike the yowling of mating cats swelled through the flat. Mycroft could clearly hear the sound of electric guitars being tortured by enthusiastic amateurs. Then the singing started. He froze in place in his seat, his eyes wide with horror and recollection.

"Interesting, isn't it, Mycroft. It's a punk rock band. The Blistering Ferrets, I believe they were called."

Mycroft swallowed hard. "Turn it off! Turn it _OFF_!"

John pressed the off button. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You weren't enjoying it?"

"Where did you get THAT?" Mycroft ground the words out between clenched teeth.

"John inherited it."

"Inherited?"

John sat cross legged on the floor and grinned wickedly up at him. "From my cousin, James Watson. I believe you knew him."

"I…I don't believe so."

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably didn't know his name, John. He would have been just another groupie to Mycroft."

Groupie? Mycroft went pale as a name sprang to mind that he hadn't thought of in years. Beautiful Jamie Watson, with his soft blond hair, dancing eyes, and warm mouth. He looked down at John. Bollocks! Why hadn't he seen the resemblance before?

Mycroft fought to regain his equilibrium. Sherlock and John watched him with identical expressions of innocence on their faces.

"All right. How much?"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock managed to look offended.

"How much do you and Dr Watson want to make that tape and any photographs you have disappear?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You disappoint me, Mycroft. I thought you would have realised a lot quicker than this."

"Be fair, Sherlock," John said with a grin, "Mycroft's had a bit of a shock. Would you like a cuppa, Mycroft? It's good for shock."

"Or maybe a blanket?" Sherlock added solicitously .

"No. Thank you." Mycroft glared at John, who shrugged and looked at Sherlock.

"It's simple, Mycroft, a three year old could work it out. The cassettes and, more importantly, the photographs are my insurance policy."

"Insurance policy?"

"Yes. When I require help on a case from you, you will provide it, without expecting me to solve one of your boring little problems."

"And in exchange you'll give me the tapes and the photographs?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Oh no. I don't exactly trust you, brother dear. After every instance where you have provided the assistance I require, one tape, photograph or equivalent document will be handed over to you for your personal destruction."

John smiled, "We have around two hundred individual items, Mycroft, so you'll be helping your brother for quite some time."

"Have we a deal, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice held dark amusement.

White and shaken, Mycroft got to his feet. "We have a deal." His gaze swept both men. Shaking his head in disbelief, Mycroft tottered downstairs to his car.

Standing at the window, Sherlock and John watched him go.

Sherlock turned away and flung himself on the sofa. "Bored!" he announced to John and the world at large.

John grinned. "We've still got several Blistering Ferrets tapes to listen to."

Sherlock gave him a look of sheer horror. "I'd rather remove my ear drums with a fork!"

"Mycroft would be happy to help with that!"

Sherlock and John stared at each other for a long moment before dissolving into helpless giggles.

**Author's Note: This fic came about after a friend of mine sent me a photo of Mark Gatiss looking like he was getting in touch with his inner Sid Vicious. After that, this story virtually wrote itself.**


End file.
